The Circus Boys On The Plains | Page 5

Guy ropes were straining at their anchorages, center and quarter poles were beating a nervous tattoo on the sodden turf. The rain was driving over the circus lot in blinding sheets.
The night was not ideal for a circus performance. However, the showmen uttered no protest, going about their business as methodically as if the air were warm and balmy, the moon and stars shining down over the scene complacently.
Now and again, as the wind shifted for a moment toward the showman's swaying office tent, the blare of the band off under the big top told him the show was moving merrily on.
"Bates, you are almost human at times. I had already observed that the storm was coming wet," replied the showman.
"Yes, sir."
"I have reason to be aware of the fact that 'she is coming wet,' as you so admirably put it. My feet are at this moment in a puddle of water that is now three inches above my ankles. Why shouldn't I know?"
"Yes, sir," agreed the patient attendant.
"What I want to know is how are the tents standing the blow?"
"Very well, sir."
"As long as there is a stitch of canvas over your head you take it for granted that the tops are all right, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"The emergency gang is on duty, of course?"
"They're out in the wet, sir."
"Of course; that is where they belong on a night like this. But what were you doing out there? You have no business that calls you outside."
"I was helping a lady, sir."
"Helping a lady?"
"Yes, sir."
"What lady?"
"The English Fat Girl got mired on the lot, sir, and I was helping to get her out," answered the attendant solemnly.
"Pshaw!"
"Yes, sir."
"You will please attend to your own business after this. If the English Fat Girl gets mired again we will have the elephant trainer bring over one of the bulls and haul her out. She won't be so anxious to get stalled after that, I'm thinking," snapped the showman.
"Yes, sir."
"What act is on now under the big top?"
"The ground tumblers are in the ring, sir."
Mr. Sparling reflected briefly.
"Has Mr. Forrest finished his work for the evening?"
"I think so, sir. He should be off by this time."
"Can you get to the dressing tent without finishing the job of drowning at which you already have made such a good start?" demanded the showman quizzically.
"Yes, sir," grinned Bates.
"Then, go there."
The attendant started to leave the tent.
"Come back here!" bellowed the showman.
Bates turned patiently. He was not unused to the strange whims of his employer.
"What are you going to do when you get to the dressing tent?"
"I don't know, sir."
"I thought not. You are an intelligent animal, Bates. Now listen!"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Sparling scowled, surveying his messenger with narrowed eyes.
"Tell Mr. Philip Forrest that I wish to see him in my private car at the 'runs,'"--meaning that part of the railroad yards where the show had unloaded early that morning.
"Yes, sir."
"Wait! You seem anxious to get wet! Have the men strike my tent at once. It is likely to strike itself if they do not get busy pretty quick," added the showman, rising.
The messenger saluted, then hurried out into the driving storm, while Mr. Sparling methodically gathered up the papers he had been studying, stuffing them in an inside coat pocket.
"A fine, mellow night," he said to himself, peering out through the flap as he drew on his oilskins. Pulling the brim of his sombrero down over his eyes he stalked out into the storm.
A quick glance up into the skies told his experienced eyes that the worst of the storm had passed, and that there was now little danger of a blow-down that night. He started off across the circus lot, splashing through the mud and water, bound for his comfortable private car that lay on a siding about half a mile from the circus grounds.
He found a scene of bustle and excitement in the railroad yards, where a small army of men were rushing the work of loading the menagerie wagons on the first section, for the train was going out in three sections that night.
"It is a peculiar fact," muttered the showman, "that the worse the weather is, the louder the men seem called upon to yell. However, if yelling makes them feel any the less wet, I don't know why I should object."
The showman quickly changed his wet clothes and settled himself at the desk in his cosy office on board the private car. He had been there something like half an hour when the buzzing of an electric bell called the porter to the door of the car.
A moment later and Phil Forrest appeared at the door of the car.
"You sent for me, did you not, Mr. Sparling?"
"Why, good evening, Phil," greeted the showman, looking up quickly with a welcoming smile on his face.
"I call